a lesson from crickets

By Naomi McPeters


Somber reflections of summer and ambivalence of the approaching autumn

Their voices have lost their luster

And I wonder

If the crickets know that they're dying

I wonder

If their lives have no meaning

Beyond night after night of incessantly chirping their life song away into winter

Besides filling the dark with their chivalrous screeching

Calling to each other as if keenly aware

That their passion and purpose is fulfilled only in reaching the other

Though they know that no peace is found in clinging to life or each other

We all know from the first breath that we take we are dying

By the time we have figured out how to live it is time to surrender

Enchanted by living, in fear of our dying,

Afraid of an unceremonious ending

And I wonder

Why it took so long to remember

That we are all just here for each other

No other

Yet the other is slipping away just as fast—don’t grasp

Onto life too much, it is quickly waning

Fill the air with our voices and penetrate the lives of another

Through the season of summer

Through the fall and the winter

Waiting for a heartbeat to return after the frost of December

I wonder what it is they are saying:

"We'll be back" or maybe "I loved knowing you, brother"

Maybe there was nothing more to this than simply loving each other

Freely

There’s nothing simple about love

Can a cricket know it?

I doubt it

We see reflections of ourselves in the smallest, most gallant creation

Does that showcase our pride or are we just humble

Enough to admit we will take a lesson from a six-legged insect that won't live to see tomorrow

Yet they don't fear their dying

They don't fight the onslaught of time, rather they continue their song

Creating the notes as they go along,

Unhindered by the restrictions of the metronome beating, yet singing

In perfectly glorious harmony

Making no attempt to understand, not tormented over the fact that soon,

Their conductor will freeze his arms in midair for a moment

Bringing an end to the chanting, incessant and solemn

And the musicians will disappear for a year of tomorrows...